After
by Jinxgirl
Summary: Reactions and grieving of Rachel, Kurt, Puck, Quinn, and Santana in the direct aftermath of Finn's death. Season 5.
1. Chapter 1: Rachel

Rachel

It seemed somehow cruelly fitting that the most tragic day of her life would be immediately following one of triumph and joy, the day she had at the time been sure was her happiest. Rachel had always been one to appreciate bitter irony and melodrama in movies, plays, and especially musicals, and even as a child she had secretly wished her own life could be so exciting, even if that would mean bringing her tremendous obstacles and pain. In a way, she had secretly regarded her ostracized state in high school as a trial making her worthy of earning her own Broadway existence- her own private tribulation, purely to pave her way into inevitable strength and stardom.

But admiring tragedy at a distance, and even experiencing pain on a regular basis, was nowhere near the same as having genuine tragedy announce itself at your door. And Rachel had never understood, had not even begun to comprehend, the depth of pain she could experience, with only a few spoken words.

She was the first of them all to find out, although she was not the first to be called. The first had been Kurt, but his cell phone was turned off, as was his habit each morning until he woke up, and especially after a late night out. It had been close to 3 am when he, Rachel, and Santana stumbled back to their loft that morning. They had been spending most of the night and several hours of the morning out celebrating Rachel's casting as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl- her greatest dream and her introduction to Broadway. The whole night had been a blur of dancing and laughing and drinking as both Kurt and Rachel rarely indulged in, with Santana highly encouraging them both and even getting rather touchy-feely in her dancing with Rachel as the night wore on, pushing the limit as far as Rachel would allow. By the time they made it back to the loft, all three were more than a little on the intoxicated side, with Rachel giggling and insisting on linking arms with them both so that they often tripped over each other's feet, leaving Santana alternating between swearing and laughing with her as Kurt egged them both on, teasing in a voice that was much louder than usual.

They had collapsed in their respective beds and become almost dead to the world, knowing full well that the morning would bring their giddiness from the night before to a screeching halt as hangovers, sleep deprivation, and crankiness, or in Santana's case, outright bitchiness, settled over them as a consequence. But Rachel had been okay with that; she had known that after that night, it would be time to really get serious with practice and rehearsal, balancing schoolwork with workouts with dance class with Funny Girl, and this was likely the last time anywhere in the near future she would be able to just go out and let go, to let herself be irresponsible and fun with friends.

She had not remembered to turn off her phone, but she had remembered to turn off her alarm; this was one morning where she would skip her usual workout, in light of her anticipated hangover in the morning. So Rachel's first thought when she heard the all too cheerful tone of Phantom of the Opera's "Masquerade" somewhere in the vicinity of her sleeping area was that someone, somewhere, simply did not seem to understand that calling someone at seven am on a Saturday, the night after her Funny Girl news, was simply not acceptable behavior at all.

She tried to ignore the ringing, mumbling incoherently to herself and shoving one ear harder against her pillow, and when she heard Santana yell out a swear word from behind her own curtain, she ignored this too, knowing that she would catch hell from the Latina for this later. Hungover Santana was considerably less pleasant to deal with than normal Santana in the mornings, and considering how cranky she was until around nine am even when sober, that was saying something. Still she ignored the phone, hoping she would still be able to fall asleep once its ringing stopped, until she heard the voicemail pick up, and the caller begin to speak.

"Rachel? Rachel, it's Burt Hummel…I tried to call Kurt but I think…it seems like he turned his phone off…Rachel, if he's not around, or if he's…if he's sleeping or…Rachel, please tell him, he needs to call me back."

There was something in his voice that got Rachel's attention even in her groggy state, a shakiness to his tone that was unusual, even concerning. Forcing her eyes open, then slowly pulling herself to a sitting position, she reached for the phone, stifling a gasp at the immediate dizziness spinning through her head and the sharp twisting of her stomach as she takes the step needed to reach her dresser, where her phone is resting, plugged into its charger. Covering her mouth as she yawned and deliberately avoiding looking in her mirror at her doubtlessly unkempt appearance, she scrolled to find her first miss call and called Burt back on instinct, rather than wake Kurt, as he had suggested. If something was going on, if something was wrong, then maybe it would be better if she could be prepared herself for what Kurt might hear, or if she told Kurt herself, in person.

Even hungover, Rachel's mind was beginning to speed up, thoughts of potential disaster racing through her brain. Her first thought, of course, was Burt's prostrate cancer. He had assured Kurt that he was in remission, that everything was fine, but doctors were wrong all the time, and he had sounded so strained and upset on the phone…almost like he was trying not to cry. Was his cancer back? Or had he found out that Carol, Kurt's stepmother, had cancer too? What if they both had cancer and neither were in remission? What if he was weeks away from death? No, Rachel definitely had to talk to him herself, she definitely had to know for Kurt's sake.

"Hello? Mr. Hummel, it's Rachel Berry," she didn't wait for Kurt's father to even say hello as he picked up on the other line. Clearing her throat and leaning against the wall beside the dresser, she tried to modulate her voice to sound as calm and most importantly, fully sober as possible, even as her head throbbed faintly and anxiety choked her throat. "I received a portion of your message and I am now returning your call. It seems that you have something important to convey to Kurt, perhaps something…distressing…and I thought I would call you back and see what it is that you have to say? Perhaps if I had knowledge of this and could prepare myself I could help you to support Kurt in whatever it is to insure the best possible outcome."

The few seconds in between Burt Hummel's verbal response to her seemed to Rachel to last for minutes, maybe hours, and as she waited, tense, unconsciously licking her lips, she heard the man swallowing on the other line, releasing a long, shaky breath. Even before he spoke she could hear the choked tears crackling through the receiver, and yet nothing could have prepared her for his words to her, not a single one of the possibilities of disaster flitting through her mind equaled his actual response.

"Rachel…it's…it's Finn, honey," he managed at last, his voice so strained she could barely understand him. "He's…Rachel, he's dead."

She wasn't aware of her eyes widening, her pupils dilating until she couldn't see or focus on anything at all. She wasn't aware of dropping her phone and cracking the screen, of Burt's voice, choking out her name on the other end. She wasn't aware of her legs shaking so badly she was beginning to slide down the wall to the floor, unable to continue standing. Only distantly did she hear the strange, keening cries from somewhere near her, almost screams, and she didn't understand until her curtain was flung back and both Kurt and Santana stood staring at her, Kurt's hair sticking straight up in several places, eyes wide and blinking frequently, Santana clad only in a tank top and underwear, an expression somewhere between fury and concern etching deep furrows in her forehead, that the noise was coming from her.

"WHAT? Rachel, WHAT, what the fuck is the matter with you?" Santana was saying almost in a hiss, but she was moving towards her fast, her arms looping around her to catch her and draw her to her feet as she began to lead Rachel's body, almost fully dead weight, back to sit down on her bed. As she called out over her shoulder for Kurt to pick up the phone and see who the hell was talking to her and what the hell they were saying, she wrapped her arms around Rachel somewhat awkwardly, trying to stop her cries.

"Rachel. Rachel, stop. Stop. Calm down, breathe. Tell me what happened…what?"

The tears Rachel barely knew she was shedding were too thick for her to see Kurt as he picked up the phone, to watch his face drain of all color as he heard his father's voice on the other end. She barely felt Santana's arms around her, didn't notice the girl look up at Kurt or ask him yet again what was going on. She didn't see Kurt's hands begin to shake or his eyes fill with tears, didn't hear his voice break as he repeated to Santana what Rachel already knew. She was only vaguely aware of Santana's body stiffening with her shock against her, of the girl's warm skin suddenly seeming cooler, of the arms around her loosening their grip as the knowledge settled over her too.

All she was aware of, all she could focus on, were two words and their meaning, the devastation they had just brought into her life and her heart.

Finn's dead. Finn's dead. Finn's dead.


	2. Chapter 2: Puck

Puck

He had known, seeing Santana Lopez's name flash across the screen of his phone and hearing the mostly tongue-in-cheek refrain of Buckcherry's "Crazy Bitch" for her particular ringtone, that something must be wrong. For one thing, it was earlier than nine am, a time when Santana, with her late shift at the strip club and her tendency to party on nights she wasn't working, would normally be dead to the world with absolutely no intention of even talking, let alone calling up an ex and former Glee-mate just to shoot the breeze. Puck himself was awake only because in less than ten days' time, he was reporting to basic training, and as soon as he had made his decision to sign up, he had started to push himself to be more serious about becoming disciplined with his workouts, waking up early to run and lift and push himself to get more in shape than he already was, developing endurance as well as strength. For another, Santana wasn't one to randomly call anyone, particularly Puck.

The only reason he could think of for her name to come up in his phone were if there was some Glee-related reunion or news that Rachel Berry had instructed her to tell him, and even that seemed a stretch, for Santana to take orders from Rachel of all people. Another possibility could be that she was drunk, weepy, and calling up every single person on her contacts list, particularly all her exes- and for Santana Lopez, if she was going back all the way to her high school days, that could be a rather extensive list. If this was the intention behind her call, to hold Puck hostage while she alternated between sobbing and sniffling and then yelling and ranting down the line, then he had no desire whatsoever to even touch the phone, let alone answer her call.

Puck was highly tempted to ignore the call and let her leave a long, rambling message on his voicemail, to which he would simply pretend he had never received it. She'd forget when she sobered up anyway exactly who it was she had called, and he would escape the wrath of Lopez all together.

But. Maybe Puck wasn't the world's most sensitive guy, and maybe he really wasn't in the mood now, or pretty much ever, to deal with Santana and her issues, especially when she was in the mindset to want to blame each and every single one of them on him, at top volume. But she was still his friend, one of his Glee girls- NOT that he would ever say the phrase aloud, where anyone might hear. He rarely saw her as it was and it would be a lot longer until he saw her next. And weird as it was, he did actually miss her, suspected he would miss her more than he already did when he left for basics. If she really was having a genuine problem of some kind…well, if any of his girls really did need help, and it was the kind where he could actually do something about it, whether or not he ever told them to their faces, Puck knew he would make every effort to be there.

So with a loud sigh and a rolling of his eyes, Puck picked up the phone, speaking into the receiver.

"What's up, Lopez. You drunk off your ass and yammering or just crying into your sleeve?"

"I don't have time for this, Puckerman," Santana's voice was terse, tight, and very sober indeed. Just from its tone Puck's eyebrows lifted, and he found himself frowning, puzzled and already paying closer attention. This sort of introduction to a conversation from Santana was rare indeed, so rare as to actually never have happened before.

"You got time to call me barely past the crack of dawn on a Saturday though. What's going on, Santana?" Puck asked, and then, after a pause, added a somewhat awkward, if genuine, "You all right?"

He heard her breathe in sharply on the other end of the receiver, release her breath out so it crackled in his ear, and he realized distantly that his muscles, formerly stretched out and relaxed from his earlier workout, were now drawing together, tensing in anticipation of her words. It seemed that something genuinely was wrong, from Santana's strange behavior, and though Puck wasn't one to overanalyze or think ahead too much to the future, this was odd enough behavior from her that he was in fact concerned.

She never answered his question about whether or not she was all right, and when she finally spoke, her voice was rushed, harsh, almost angry in tone. She threw her words out at him like a curveball she didn't care whether or not he caught, giving him little time or preparation at all.

"Finn's dead, okay? Finn…he's dead. He fucking died, Puck, he _died_."

Whatever Puck might have unconsciously been expecting to hear from her, this was the last, least, and most unbelievable of the possibilities. Santana being hurt in some way- pregnant, diseased, finding herself married after a wild night in Vegas- that he could believe and deal with accordingly. Even something with Rachel or Kurt, as much as he might hate to hear it, it might make sense, and it could be handled. Everything could be handled and fixed, in some way, some how. Except this.

This could not be fixed or changed, if it were true, and it simply could not be. It was too unbelievable, simply too insane to actually be true. Finn Hudson was 19 years old. Finn Hudson was his friend, his best fucking friend, and he was no Santana Lopez with her crazy life and her sometimes reckless ways….he was no Noah Puckerman and never had been. Finn was FINN, and there was no way in hell he could be dead. It was impossible.

"That isn't funny, Santana," he growled into the receiver, barely aware that he was gripping the phone so tightly that his knuckles were white, and barely hearing one of them pop. "That isn't fucking funny at all. Sober the fuck up and get a clue that it's no joke to call someone at nine in the morning and tell them their best friend died. Take a cold shower and sleep it off."

"I'm fucking serious, Puck, and don't you fucking yell at me!" Santana snapped back, although Puck was pretty sure he hadn't raised his voice at all. "He's dead, I'm not making anything up. I wish I was, believe me, I fucking wish I was, but I'm not. He's dead."

"Shut up, Santana," Puck snapped, his voice growing sharper, and he stood, beginning to pace the small confines of the room, even as Santana spoke over him, her voice rising in pitch and volume as well.

"No! No, you listen to me, Puck! Kurt's dad called, he called Rachel and he said it, he-"

"Santana, shut the fuck up, this isn't fucking funny-"

"He called, I'm telling you he called and he said that he's dead, he said-"

"Damn it, Santana, I told you to SHUT UP, THIS ISN'T FUNNY-"

"THIS IS FUCKING REAL, PUCK!" Santana nearly screamed, and the rawness of her voice, the obvious pain beneath her anger, the breathless sob that followed, was what made him freeze, stopping in his pacing, stopping in doing anything at all but standing still, listening to her words continue to slam into his ears, knocking against his denial and beating it down. "THIS IS REAL, THIS IS HAPPENING! Don't you fucking call me a liar, this is real, I've been watching Rachel cry until she pukes and Kurt cry until he can barely breathe and their parents have been calling every two minutes wanting to drive up here or get them a flight to Lima and it is REAL, it's all FUCKING REAL, FINN IS DEAD AND IT IS REAL!"

She went silent then, but Puck could still hear her uneven breaths on the other end, heavy and occasionally breaking, as though she were struggling to hold back tears. He could hear her breathing, waiting for his response, and he did not give her one. Instead, he ended the call, then shut off his phone. For several minutes he stood motionless, staring without seeing anything at all. Then he threw the phone against the wall with all his strength, not caring when it cracked, its screen shattering, as it hit the floor.

Sinking down onto his sofa bed, Puck covered his face with his hands, feeling the trembling begin low in his gut and gradually work its way up through his ribcage and arms, into his shoulders, until he was shaking all over, grief pressing against his throat and threatening to burst forth in an audible cry. He closed his eyes tightly, but it didn't stop the tears from gathering behind, and it didn't keep him from seeing Finn's face in his mind.

This was impossible. If it was ever going to be any one of them to go, Puck knew that his number would be the first up for taking, and that was the way it should be. The way it would be right and fair. But this…this was not the way it should be, this was not right, and he could not even begin to understand.

This was impossible.


	3. Chapter 3: Quinn

Quinn

It had been two days now, and Quinn couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, and she swore she could feel him close to her, she could hear his voice. She could almost smell him, the familiar scent of aftershave and just the slightest undertone of sweat that she associated with being very close to him. Sometimes it all seemed so real to her that her eyes flew open and she sat up with a gasp, looking all around herself with her heart pounding, her eyes wide with equal parts dread, fear, and hope, but every time, there was nothing in the room. She had even gone so far as to get out of bed, searching beneath her bed and in the closet and in the bathroom adjoining her roommate's bedroom to hers, but of course, there had been no one there at all, and Quinn could not be sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

She knew it was ridiculous, to think that Finn would be there, somehow, and that of all the people he knew and loved, it would be her he would choose to haunt. There were multiple other people he was closer to, people who had been nicer to him and loved him more, people who would deserve more from him. People who had actually spoken to him for more than a few seconds since graduation. There was no reason to think that he was even capable of doing such a thing, let alone that he would choose to spend his time as the undead hanging around HER.

But maybe that wasn't true. If Quinn looked on the flip side of things- and she had spent a lot of time, in the past couple of days, analyzing every thought that came into her mind, twisting them inside out and upside down until she felt sick with uncertainty- maybe she was actually the one that he would want to haunt more than anyone. Because out of all of them, it was Quinn who had really done the most wrong by Finn, and it was Quinn who would have given him the biggest ax to grind.

It was true that Finn had not been the sort of guy to hold a grudge or hate anyone, let alone want to torment them for eternity. Quinn was pretty sure that the last she had known of him, they had been on good terms with each other, at a friendly understanding if not a deep friendship. But who knew what happened to a person after they died, what kind of forces or events might shape them into becoming something or someone else? Quinn believed in God, she believed in Heaven and Hell, but what could anyone really say about how all of that really worked?

And so she lay awake at night, her heart in her throat, eyes open wide even as hot tears pricked her lids, and tried with all her being to push Finn from her mind, even as she remained half certain he was still there after all.

It had been Santana who gave her the news of his death. Quinn had been a little surprised to see her number on her cell; ever since the first attempt of Mr. Shuester's wedding, the one she had actually been invited to attend, and the drunken triste with Santana in its aftermath, things had been a little odd between them. It wasn't awkward between them, really, so much as uncertain. They had never been the best at keeping up with each other on a regular basis before, and now it seemed that much easier to have an excuse to do so even less. Sure, when she or Santana texted or private messaged each other, they talked like they always had, with teasing and competiveness taking place throughout most of it, with less frequent moments of affection and nostalgia cropping up now and then. But their relationship, never easy to define even in high school, was subtly different now, and Quinn wasn't sure what to think about the difference or what to do with it, if anything at all.

She was pretty sure she didn't like girls, at least not in a permanent, Santana sort of way, but she supposed it was possible she could on a Brittany level, liking a girl who happened to crop up as an exclusive interest. The words "bisexual" and "pansexual" were ones Quinn shied away from, thinking privately to herself that they sounded like a type of amoeba more than a person, but she supposed she could live with "bi-curious." She was also pretty sure that she didn't like or love Santana as anything more than her best friend from high school, as admittedly attractive as she was and as fun as that night had been. But "pretty sure" didn't mean totally, one hundred percent certain, and Quinn suspected that this was the major reason behind any lingering strangeness between them. It definitely wasn't coming from Santana's side; the girl had, as Quinn might have expected, moved on as though nothing had changed, and for her, probably nothing had.

Still, things were different enough that a phone call from Santana was surprising and out of the ordinary, and when Quinn had picked up, she had already known something must be up even before she heard Santana speak.

Santana had wasted little time on the telephone in explaining details or dispensing comfort. Maybe she had no such information herself, and in hindsight Quinn could imagine that with her living with Rachel and Kurt, she had no energy to give out any further comfort than she might have already. Several flatly stated sentences, outlining the minimal facts, and then she was off, leaving Quinn realizing with the bombshell she could not even begin to comprehend how to respond to.

Quinn hadn't cried, and that, in retrospect, seemed wrong to her, very wrong. Shouldn't that be everyone's response to hearing about the death of a friend, of someone they had once thought themselves to be in love with, someone they had spent nearly every day with for years of their life? Didn't it show that they cared, didn't it show that they were a normal, loving person, if they reacted to death with tears?

But she hadn't. She had sank down on the couch of her living room and taken in slightly shuddering breaths, head lowered near her knees, and she had not cried. She had felt almost numb with her effort to understand, her attempts to simply process everything she had just been told.

The truth of it was that in her daily life at Yale, with her dalliance with her professor and her struggle to maintain her 4.0 average, her new part time job and her interactions with her new friends, Finn and most of the other Glee members were no longer part of her every day life or thoughts. She hadn't really thought about Finn since the wedding, and even then she had barely spent any time talking to him or thinking about him at all, with her thoughts much more focused on drinking and Santana. Honestly she was unsure what her feelings towards him had been since graduation, or even exactly what they had been their final year of high school, but she suspected there was more jealousy, for what happiness he had with Rachel, mingled with nostalgia and wistfulness for what could have been, than any strong level of love.

Of course she loved Finn, just as she loved everyone in Glee, in various levels of intensity and with varying degrees of confliction. But he had no longer been part of her life or even her thoughts. Even before his death he had mostly become a memory, and now, memory was all that was left at all.

She was sure that the other Glee members were all calling and texting each other nonstop, crying on each other's shoulders, reminiscing and trying to lean on each other through the immediate aftermath of the news. Her phone had buzzed so often in the past day or two that she had eventually had to turn it off, unable to bring herself to answer or look at the screen. She knew they all wanted to be sure she was okay, to be able to comfort her if she needed or to receive comfort from her. But Quinn didn't feel that she could do this, that she even had a right to be part of this, not when she barely felt anything at all.

She wasn't even sure if she should go to the funeral. What use would she be to anyone else if she stood there, head held high, eyes dry, she who had less cause or reason than anyone else to mourn? She who had used Finn, multiple times, for her own causes, she who had lied to him and cheated on him and tried to blame him for her own mistakes. She who had betrayed him, she who had never really loved him like he tried to love her. How could she stand there with the others and say that her grief for him was anywhere near the same, or as deserved?

Santana had said the funeral would be on a Saturday, and Quinn put off making her decision until the night before. But on day three of no sleep, of every small noise in the night making her gasp and jump and dread , she had broken down and reached for the phone.

Logic would tell her to call Santana, who had been her best friend once, if not now. Logic would tell her to call her mother or Will, Coach Beiste Emma, or another adult who might have more insight and wisdom than she herself did. Logic would tell her to call Kurt or Rachel and tell them how sorry she was, to let them cry and vent to her and to make up for the crappy friend she had been to them both.

But logic was not always strong within Quinn, and the first person that came to her mind to call was Puck.

His voice was slurred and almost unintelligible when he picked up the phone, nine rings later, and Quinn knew immediately that he was trashed. He chuckled into the receiver darkly, mumbling something about all the blondes finding their way back to him eventually, and Quinn had listened to him spew out his own drunken frustration and pain without saying anything back, listening as he ranted until she heard his voice break on a barely held back sob. And this was when her own eyes filled with tears that for the first time broke free, this was when she began to cry harder than she could remember crying in the past three years of her life. Paralysis and broken hearts, pregnancies and parental abandonment, loss of her child and changing of her life, and yet this was the moment that immediately stuck out to her as the most central cause of pain.

She had thought she felt nothing for Finn anymore, that even his death left her numb. She had been wrong.

"I'm n-not s-sorry for Beth," she gasped at last over the receiver, knowing that Puck, if no one else, would understand. "But…b-but Puck, I'm….I'm so…I'm so sorry for what we did."

She could hear the faint crackling of the receiver on Puck's end, his frequent heavy swallows and loud exhalations of breath, and as both remained silent, listening to the other person cry, it seemed to Quinn for the first time that Finn was truly gone.


	4. Chapter 4: Santana

Santana

Only through the most stretched and strained circumstances had she and Finn really been able to call themselves friends, loosely connected through other, closer relationships, before being firmly bound together by Glee. One thing Glee did, whether or not Santana had always wanted to admit or acknowledge it at the time, was take people who had very little in common and quite a lot to dislike, get annoyed by, or resent about each other, and somehow still force them to become friends, even family. Finn Hudson was not someone she would have voluntarily spent any time with of his own merits, at least not after having bagged him once in bed, and yet, for various reasons, they had become exactly that. Friends. Family.

And now that she was living with his stepbrother, who had once had a crush on him, and his former fiancé, that had tied him into her life all the more firmly, even if she had little to do with him anymore at all. No matter the miles apart or the differing lives they were beginning to lead, Santana couldn't seem to escape the presence of Finn, always at least loosely in the background of her life.

But now he was front and center of their thoughts, their emotions, and try as she might to make it otherwise, of hers too. Because Finn was dead. Finn was dead, and Santana had no idea what to think or feel about it. Or at least, she had no idea what she would allow herself to think or feel about it.

She was sorry, of course. Sorry that anyone would die at nineteen years old, before they had really done anything in life at all. People could say all they wanted about how Finn had won Nationals in New Directions or impacted people's lives for the better just by being himself, but Santana knew it would all be something to say just to make themselves feel better, to try to give people false hope and inspiration to take out of what was essentially just a really shitty fact. Finn was dead, and nothing he had done or been or could have done could change that. What was the point in even trying to put a positive spin on it?

She was sorry for his mother, who had already lost her husband and now had a husband in remission of prostate cancer, who had had such a difficulty and grief-stricken life and now had been given more to bear. She was sorry for Kurt's father, who had become so close to Finn and seemed to love him and feel pride towards him almost as much as towards his own son- Burt Hummel, the dad that Santana had secretly always felt fierce jealousy towards, for having the warmth and supportiveness towards Kurt that Santana had always privately craved from her own father. She was sorry for Mr. Shuester, who had grown to love Finn as his best friend more so than a favorite student, for Puck and Artie and Sam and the other guys who had actually, inexplicably, seemed to look at Finn as a leader. And of course, she was sorry for Kurt and Rachel, whose pain in the past couple of days had been so intense and unrelenting that Santana sometimes felt like she was suffocating in it, like she was choking on their grief to the point that she could barely stand to be in the room with them, their very presence slowly squeezing the life out of her.

She was sorry for them, but only in a distant way could she really connect Finn's death to having any affect, other than through others, on herself. It was hard to do that when it still didn't seem real.

Kurt and Rachel, they were real. It was real that she could hear Kurt crying behind his curtain every night, deep, shuddering sobs, that Blaine had come to stay with them and was basically at his side nearly every moment of the day, retreating behind Kurt's curtain for hours at a time as he comforted him in a low murmur Santana actively tried not to hear. It was real that Kurt's eyes were constantly swollen and red with his tears and he could not seem to meet Santana's eyes, that he had changed his clothes only once and had no hair products in his hair, nor did Blaine- and THAT was an indication of the seriousness of the situation. It was real that Rachel was barely eating or sleeping and would shower only when Santana made her, that she cried so pitifully in the night that two nights in a row now Santana had ended up crawling into bed with her and wrapping her arms around her, lying down with her until Rachel finally tired enough to sleep. It was real that Santana had lain awake after, listening to her uneven breaths and feeling heavy all over, as though she could not move if she tried, and the pain in her heart was so intense she herself could hardly draw breath, and yet still she could not really label it as being directed towards Finn at all.

Kurt was real. Rachel was real. All this anguish, being thrust into the role of comforter that Santana sucked at so much, was all real. But Finn dying? That still seemed like a cruel joke, a perverted fantasy more than anything.

She had never been close to Finn, even through the ties of Glee. The most that could be said about their relationship was that it had gradually shifted to amused affection towards each other more than outright hostility and contempt. And how could it be much more? He was a doofy, not that attractive guy with lazy work ethic and a less than brilliant mentality who couldn't dance, could barely sing, and who was way too self-righteous without knowing what the hell he was talking about the majority of the time. He sucked at sex even for a guy and the way he hung on Rachel's lips was sickening, not to mention how he had swung back and forth between her and Quinn. Hell, he had been the one to OUT her and totally ruin her life for a while, back during their senior year of high school. Sure, maybe he had tried to make up for it after, and she could admit that he did try to fix his screw ups, however incompetently, and it was true that Santana could not imagine going back to being in the closet. But the point remained that he could be a complete dumbass.

But even so, he had been part of Glee. One of the leaders of Glee, as much as she might not want to admit it. He had been one of them, and it seemed completely unreasonable, totally unfair and just wrong that he could die.

And if he could die…so could anyone, absolutely anyone at all. Quinn or Rachel or Kurt, Puck or Mercedes or Brittany…so could she. And that, as much as anything else, was preying on Santana's mind.

She had thought about it, her senior year of high school, right after she had been outed, when the world seemed too much pressure, too few positives to continue with. She had locked herself into her bathroom and taken a bottle of her mother's sleeping pills in her hand, reading the label over and over until the words blurred in her eyes. She had thought about what it would be like to lie back in the tub and take them, two at a time, until she simply fell asleep for the rest of her life. But in the end her heart had started to beat so fast and her hands had shook so much she put them back, and instead she drank half a bottle of her mother's wine and called Brittany, crying for her to come be with her. But even then, death, real death, had been only a dark thought or possibility, never truly real.

But it was real now, a part of her life, and it seemed much more obvious and true now that she could die too. She could die today without having ever really gotten anywhere or done anything important, with no solid relationship and no real contributions, with her family far away and her abuela still hating her for who she was. She could die without anyone hearing what she really thought or felt, without anyone hearing the things she generally didn't say, the things she probably should say instead of the stupid, teasing, insulting shit she usually threw their way. She could die with their last memory of her being a sarcastic comment she didn't even really mean, and that would be what they really believed was true.

What had been the last thing she said to Finn? It sure as hell hadn't been that she liked him or even sort of loved him, in the Glee family kind of way. It hadn't been that she forgave him, even if he probably already knew that, or that she did appreciate his effort to make it right, clumsy and ineffective as it was, after outing her. It hadn't been that his dancing had gotten a little better or that his singing was always best when paired with Rachel, or that even if he wasn't' any good in bed, he hadn't been her worst. It hadn't been that she still laughed when she thought about him wearing tight gold shorts from Rocky Horror or that as disgusted as she pretended to be, it made her smile when she saw the way he could make Rachel's eyes light up with her love for him.

She didn't know, and on the second night that she lay with Rachel in her bed, one arm loosely around her, this was what kept her awake, her eyes hot and scratchy with lack of sleep. What had been the last thing she said to him? What had been the last thing she said to her mami, her papi, to Puck or Quinn or Brittany? Was it something that was worth it, something that she could be okay with if tomorrow, one of them was gone?

The day before the funeral, Brittany's name was on Skype. Rachel was still sleeping that morning, and Santana could hear the low murmur of Blaine and Kurt whispering from behind their curtain, so after a glance at Rachel, seeing that she was still out for the count, she had carried her laptop into her own bed area and waited, hoping for Brittany to make the first move.

It hadn't taken long. Less than five minutes after she had logged in, she saw a single message pop up on her chat screen.

"Sanny…u ok?"

It took longer than it should have to type the one word reply, the only response that was possible, because it was giving up the mask that had never really been fully covering her in the first place.

"No."

Another few seconds and Brittany was dialing her skype, the small picture of her face in the middle of the screen already causing Santana to begin to swallow frequently, trying to force down the sudden blockage to her throat. As Santana answered, allowing the blonde's face to fill her screen, she looks back at her wordlessly, seeing the concern in Brittany's deep blue eyes, the lines furrowing her brow as she regarded her, hearing the softness of Brittany's voice as she spoke to her.

"Hey, San."

And that was all it took. Two words, after the floods of verbal rants and raves Santana had heard from so many others in the past few days, and this was what broke down the bars she had tried so hard to maintain. Two words and she felt her face crumple, her body automatically fold in on itself as she began to sob aloud, finally giving audible release to her pain.

Brittany said nothing, at least nothing that Santana was able to register or hear. She just sat there, listening, watching her cry, remaining with her in the moment, even from hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away. She sat with her, but she could not touch her, and even with three other people in the apartment, the distance between them all made Santana feel almost unbearably alone.


	5. Chapter 5: Kurt

Kurt

Kurt could still remember his mother's funeral. He had been eight years old when she died, and he had maintained for months afterward a vain, desperate hope that somehow, for some reason, it was all just a lie, that eventually, she would come back home to him. Eventually she would come through the front door and take him into her arms, laughing at his astonishment as she explained that no, she hadn't died, no, nothing bad had ever happened to her at all. She was only teaching him a lesson, making sure he would always appreciate her from this point on. Maybe she and his dad were punishing him for some wrongdoing by pretending such a terrible thing, or maybe it was all simply a mistake. Maybe it had been someone else who died and they only thought it was his mother, and she was actually just lost or missing or going on vacation. Maybe she was tired of being a mom and a wife for a while and just needed to take a little break. It didn't matter what the explanation might be, just so long as she did come back.

Kurt had barely reacted to anyone or anything throughout her funeral, numbly enduring the hugs and caresses of the dozens of sympathetic relatives, family friends, and acquaintances who had all shown such concern for the young boy who was withstanding it all so bravely. He had sat beside his father in the front row, holding his hand tightly, and not complaining when Burt squeezed his hand a little too hard for his comfort. He had stood with him to place his white flower on his mother's coffin, and he had asked no questions, not wanting to hear the answers he might receive. And when his father's face twisted with his effort to suppress tears, Kurt had turned to him and assured him calmly, almost fully believing himself, that it would be okay. Because to Kurt, there was still hope that it would be, that his mother was simply not present in the coffin at all, whether in body or in soul.

Ten years later, at another funeral, Kurt was no longer able to let himself think or believe in the simplistic, naïve manner of his childhood self. But more than anything, he wished that he could. More than anything, he wished he would have just cause, that it was in fact true…that his stepbrother, his friend, would walk in at any moment and prove this all to be a terrible, much too prolonged practical joke.

He could almost see this happening. Finn would walk in down the church aisle, his oversized form immediately attracting attention of all the bowed heads and shaking shoulders of his friends and family, and he would look around with that sheepish, slightly puzzled grin only Finn could pull off, genuinely puzzled by their reactions. He would run a hand over his head and shrug his shoulders, speaking with some incredulity as he took in their shocked reactions to his presence.

"It was just a joke, guys…I didn't think anyone would take it this seriously. You mean you really thought I was dead, really? But…wow, you really did think that?"

It would be a terrible thing to do, the cruelest form of a gotcha that Kurt could dream up, let alone actually conceive of someone going through with. It wasn't something Finn would have done, and it wasn't something Kurt would have condoned or approved of, had he proposed doing so. But if that happened now, in the middle of the funeral, it would be one of the best moments of Kurt's life, because the alternative, that all of this was simply grim reality, was so much crueler than any sick prank.

But this was the third day after Finn's death, and Kurt had already seen the body, had cried harder than he could remember ever crying in his life in the tight hold of his father's arms after he had touched Finn's hand, feeling how stiff, cool, and utterly unhuman it was in death. You could not touch a dead person, stare down at their motionless form, and continue to truly believe in any possibility of their life. There was a vital difference in their presence, in their touch, even in their physical appearance, however well preserved, that made it impossible to believe they were simply sleeping or unconscious. Perhaps it was the absence of their soul, or the essence of life itself, but whatever it was, Kurt could not look at Finn's body and not understand that it was no longer Finn at all.

He didn't know whether to pity their other friends, for not having seen him, and been able to come to this definitive conclusion themselves, if needed, or if he was relieved for them, that out of them all, only he and Rachel had seen and touched Finn's body afterward. Or maybe he envied them. They could keep any denial or fantasies, they could believe whatever they wanted or needed for as long as they could manage. And they would never have their last memory of him being lying on his back in a coffin, so still and quiet that it seemed he was not looking at Finn's body at all, but rather a plastic mannequin imitation of a picture of him. They could think and remember whatever they chose, and Kurt only wished he had that choice.

But when it came down to it, if he could be given a choice, any choice about any of this, none of it really mattered, because his real choice in the end was to have Finn alive.

Kurt wasn't sure if it was sad, that only Finn's death seemed to bring everyone together, or whether it was actually a testimony of their relationships and bonds, that each of them, no matter where they were living or what circumstances or difficulties flying to Lima might bring them, had still managed to come for his funeral. But they were all here, each of the Glee kids and most of the WMHS staff, everyone who had loved Finn and been affected by him in their lives. And for Finn, this was an extensive list; the church was packed to the point that the pews were crowded to overflowing, and many people stood in the back and along the sides of the room. Finn had had no shortage of those who loved and cared about him, and Kurt wondered, not for the first time, if he had ever really known this or understood just how much impact he really had had.

From the moment he, his father, and his stepmother, Finn's mother, had arrived, almost two hours early, to the church, the other mourners had filed in steadily. Each had wanted to stop and talk to them, expressing condolences and giving hugs, and Kurt had felt so many tears soaking his shoulders and shed so many of his own that he felt drained of all energy and most emotion even before the funeral began. He was exhausted, finding it difficult even to stand or walk or think, and only his desire to stay strong for his father, for Carol, to be the supportive, loving son for them that Finn had always been, kept him from simply fleeing the room and curling into a ball on his bed, avoiding it all.

He didn't know what he would have done, the first two days, without Blaine there for him. The moment Blaine heard, he had driven all the way up to New York City, not leaving his side until Kurt could manage to get a plane booked for home. He had held him for hours, sometimes talking with him, sometimes just remaining quiet while Kurt cried, but always he had been there, a constant presence and comfort. Maybe Kurt wasn't entirely sure where the two of them stood as a couple, but he knew that regardless of any of that, what mattered, what was really important, was that when he truly needed him, Blaine was there. The love they had for each other was strong and real, and maybe that was all he needed to know.

He could not imagine what it was like for Rachel to not have the same understanding and knowledge, to in fact be all too aware of the fact that now, she had had this ripped away from her with no resolution ever possible. He knew that Santana had done the best she could to be there for her until they could both fly home, and she had shown much more patience, concern, and empathy than the might have predicted her capable of, under other circumstances, but it was nowhere near the same, and not what Rachel undoubtedly felt herself to need. However close she and Santana may have become, and however strong their friendship might be, what Rachel must want and need now so badly was what she could no longer have, and he only hoped that the strength and courage he knew she had would be enough to carry her through.

Long before the funeral ceremony began, the other members of the Glee club had been there, but unlike any other occasion that might have brought them together, this one was not one for reminiscing and catching up, complimenting new looks or clothing styles or expressing pleasure at seeing each other after long periods apart. This was a time to take each other's hands and hold on tightly, squeezing with all their strength just to reassure themselves that the other person was there, that they would stand by their side and help get them through the rest of the day. This was a time to hug each other hard and feel what small amount of comfort they could from someone they love being close, from knowing these people, at least for now, were still there. That these people, if not okay, were at the very least able to be reached and held and let know, while they still could, that they were needed and loved.

Kurt had noticed both Mercedes and Tina crying, that Mike Chang had his arm around Tina, his mouth drawn into a thin line as he frequently bent to whisper into her ear, and he wondered distantly if they were back together again, or only continuing to support each other as people who still harbored love for each other often did. He had seen Sam come in with Brittany, gripping her hand, the blank, shut down look in Brittany's eyes that Kurt had come to realize over time came not just from confusion or ditziness, as everyone had for years assumed, but was sometimes a deliberate effort to distance or deny to herself that she truly understood what was happening. Sam's eyes were wide and as expressive as Brittany's were blank, the bewilderment that Kurt saw reflected in them genuine and raw. Towards the back of the church sat Artie, at the end of the pew due to his wheelchair, with Kitty sitting beside him, her eyes wet with unshed tears as she toyed with her hands in her lap, biting her lower lip. At one point Artie reached to touch her twisting hands, and she allowed him to entwine his fingers with hers with a shuddering sigh. Beside her sat a tearful Marley, Jake's protective arm wound around her shoulders, and a row in front of them sat Joe, Ryder, Sugar, and Unique, all tearful to various degrees. Closer to the middle sat Will and Emma Shuester, Will's head bowed so Kurt could not see his face, but from the slump of his shaking shoulders, he was sure that the man was crying. Emma's arms were both wound around him, tears standing in her eyes as she leaned her cheek against his shoulder, and beside her, Coach Beiste wept openly, frequently wiping her eyes with a large, rather crumpled tissue. Kurt was pretty sure he had caught a glimpse of Sue Sylvester somewhere in the crowd earlier as well, but if she was indeed present, she was remaining quiet, keeping herself apart from everyone- maybe due to a desire not to let anyone see any emotion she might be feeling or expressing.

It was almost impossible for Kurt to look at any of them for more than a moment or two without fresh tears coming to his eyes, so he tried not to, instead choosing to keep himself between his father and Blaine at all times, anchoring himself firmly to their hands.

When everyone at last was seated, Kurt, Burt, Carol, Blaine, and other relatives were on one side of the congregation in the front row, with Rachel, seated in between her fathers, both their arms wound tightly around her, on the front on the other side. Behind Rachel and her fathers, all in a row, sat Puck, Quinn, Santana, Brittany, and Sam, each gripping the hands of those beside them. The unholy trinity, all in a row, former and current lovers bookmarking them on either side, each of them fighting tears even before the ceremony began. Kurt didn't dare to look at any of them either for very long. Already he had seen that Puck's knuckles were cut and bruised and suspected a losing battle with a wall or perhaps someone's face, that Quinn's eyes were red, her grip on Puck's and Santana's hands so tight that her knuckles were white, her nails seeming to dig into their skin, that Santana's face was scrunched up in the way it always seemed to get just before she began to really let go with tears, and that Brittany had let go of Sam's hand to stroke the girl's hair, giving her a kiss to the side of her head before taking his hand again. It was too much to take in, too many feelings towards too many people and too much of their pain, and so Kurt had faced front again, taking in a long, shuddering breath even as tears leaked from his eyes.

The ceremony itself was a blur. Kurt couldn't bring himself to really pay attention to the pastor's words, a man who had not known or understood Finn or who he was like any of the rest of them had. He thought of what Finn would have thought of all this, Finn who had once prayed to a vaguely Jesus-looking grilled cheese, of all things, and he would have laughed, if the memory didn't hurt enough to make his throat ache. This man could never understand who Finn was or what sort of person he had been. No one could, except for the very people who would find it near impossible to try to put it into words now.

This man could not understand Finn, who had been the main source of his mother's pride, the one joy in her life until Kurt and his father had been lucky enough to become part of it too. This man could not understand the Finn who had so wanted to honor his father that he had been willing to try to follow in his footsteps, to clear him for honorable discharge- a task he would never complete now. This man could not understand the Finn who had helped Puck graduate, who had been willing to step up and be a father to Quinn's baby, at least when he thought it was his own, who had been able to change his way of looking at other people to shift from becoming one of their teasers and tormenters to their defendant, even their family. This man could not understand how Finn's love, be it romantic or platonic, had changed many people's lives in this very room, even in part changed them. This man could not understand Finn as a brother or a best friend, as a teammate or a leader or a lover, as a man with dreams or fears or anxieties he had never quite been able to conquer or fully achieve. This man could not understand Finn as the person who judged and spoke without thinking, who sometimes seemed just a little too dim in his thinking but who always, always loved with all this heart, who tried to make himself a better man and fix his mistakes. This man could not understand, could never possibly comprehend just how much Finn had been loved, and how much he would be missed in his death, and because Kurt could, it seemed all the more unfair that none of this would ever be expressed aloud.

Still, he managed to keep himself and his tears under at least a modicum of control, that is, until it came time for Rachel's tribute. He had been concerned that she would be able to get through this, having witnessed firsthand the depth of her devastation, those first few days in New York. But no, she had managed to detach herself from her fathers' supportive grasps and walked, slow, but steady, without assistance to the front of the congregation. For a moment she had stood, blinking rapidly, tears shining brightly in her eyes, and Kurt had thought she would need to sit down after all. But then she had straightened her shoulders, closed her eyes, tilted her face towards the ceiling, opened her mouth, and sang.

"Like a freeze dried rose, you will never be what you were, what you were to me in memory…but if I listen to the dark, you'll embrace me like a star, envelop me, envelop me…"

Kurt caught his breath sharply as he watched her, seeing the slight trembling of her body slowly still, then stop altogether, the slow calm come over her features even as the emotion remained stark and clear in her face. And as she continued to sing, her voice pure and sincere with feeling, silent tears streamed down his face as he drank in every word.

"And if I listen to the sound of white, sometimes I hear your smile and breathe your light, yeah if I listen to the sound of white, you're my mystery, one mystery…"

He listened, his heart soaking in every word, every note of Rachel's voice, and as the memories flooded through his mind, as Finn's face, vivid and alive, began to replace his mental image of his face in death, Kurt felt the pain still pressing against his heart ease just a little in its pressure. He could not call what he was feeling happiness, certainly not acceptance or joy, so much as a gladness for what had been, making just a tiny bit less the pain that it was gone.

He could never touch Finn again, never talk to him or see him or hear his voice. But Finn was nevertheless there, present in memories and wishes, in the changes of their lives and the background of their thoughts and dreams. But most vividly of all, Finn was within their music, the music and all it could bring to them under any circumstances, and even if he was no longer with them, he would never really be gone.

The end

Note: song is "Sound of white" by Missy Higgins


End file.
